


A Pinch of Salt in the Wound and You'll Be Fine

by wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Transformation, Blood and Violence, Half-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Not on my watch, Wolf!Geralt, also, and not run from his feelings, because this boy will never die, geralt will learn how to listen, i will be very mean to him however, i'm jumping on this train 100 years late because i love it, mentions of rape/non-con, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22840798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas/pseuds/wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas
Summary: In the stories, the main character always needs to learn the lesson the hard way.The White Wolf is definitely learning his lesson the hard way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 78
Kudos: 751





	1. Sharp teeth, soft heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Wolves of the Revolution" by The Arcadian Wild

“Well, well,” whispered the witch, her voice nearly breathless with her enjoyment of the witcher’s current helplessness. He struggled against the bonds that held him, as he'd been struggling for nearly an hour, uselessly. “You are an interesting one. I find that I don’t actually want to kill you. But perhaps...you would benefit from a lesson?”

Geralt snarled viciously, yanking harder against the iron chains. Unfortunately, they held fast.

“Now, now, little wolf,” she tisked, running her slender fingers over his medallion. “Don’t hurt yourself.” Her expression turned thoughtful in a way that made Geralt’s stomach twist in apprehension. He growled when her fingers suddenly gripped his medallion and pulled, ripping the chain from his neck.

“Yes,” she crooned, ignoring his wordless protests. “I do believe that’s it.” Blue fire glowed at the tips of her fingers and her eyes reflected the unnatural flame as they caught his own in a piercing gaze. “This will hurt,” she told him, though there was no true kindness in the warning.

Then there was the sharp smell of lightning, electric and burning, and a searing pain in his limbs, his veins. He pulled harder against the shackles and they suddenly opened, releasing him to drop heavily to the stone floor, gasping and clawing. The fire in his body raged and burned. He felt bones snap, reshape. It was an agony he hadn’t felt since he was a child at Kaer Morhen, since the trials and the mutagens. He screamed.

Then, it was over. He lay on the cold ground, panting. His tongue felt too large for his mouth and it rolled out to the side as he heaved in breath after breath. His body was too hot, his skin still prickling from the magic, but the stone beneath him was cool enough to soothe. He tried to raise his head to find the witch, but he could barely move. He could smell nothing except his own blood and sweat, only the faintest trace of the witch left in the room where he was being held. He couldn’t move his head, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that the door, which had been bolted and sealed with magic, was now wide open.

Steeling himself, he heaved his body into a sitting position. Or at least, that’s what he attempted. Instead, he found the movement bizarrely ungainly, hindered by paws instead of hands and feet, and a tail. 

He looked down at himself in horror. A whine escaped his throat against his will at the sight of the pure white fur that covered him from head to tail and the huge wolfish paws that he lifted experimentally, one after the other. The White Wolf. The witch certainly seemed to have a sense of humor.

He did his best to stand, now on four legs instead of two, and was inordinately proud of himself that he didn’t immediately fall over, despite the trembling. Another low whine bounced off the walls of the small room. The only positive to this whole situation that he could see was that all of his belongings were currently at the inn he had stayed in the night before and Roach was safely stabled, her lodgings paid for for the next two nights. He still wasn’t sure what he’d done to the witch who’d ambushed him in the bath, catching him so off guard he’d barely gotten two fingers on the hilt of his sword before she was shoving him through a portal, but at least now he didn’t have to worry about how to carry swords as a fucking wolf.

Now, the question was what to do next. He couldn’t just stand here forever, dumbstruck. He needed to find the damn witch who cursed him and get her to change him back. Or at least find someone else who could.

His first thought was of Yennefer, but after their fight on the mountain, he doubted she would be happy to see him, regardless of his form. Or she might take pleasure in his suffering, which would be worse. It had been several months since then, but the anger and hurt had only just begun to fade from that day.

Not Yennefer then. Still, he began to walk, his steps awkward at first as he got used to walking on four legs, before beginning to lope through the corridors of the abandoned castle and out the rotted front doors. He didn’t know where he was headed exactly, but he wanted to get as far away from this place as possible. Then he could figure out a plan.

\---------

Jaskier was tired. There was nothing poetic or songworthy about this kind of bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that sinks into you like a stone in a river. He had been on his own for months now, travelling, performing, composing. He’d been pretty successful, actually, and was recognized in nearly every town he went to now. They asked him to perform in taverns, more often than not, rather than him having to ask to perform in exchange for a discounted room. It was nice. 

What wasn’t so nice was the alone part of travelling on his own. It wasn’t so much the loneliness, though he wasn’t a fan of that either, as much as the fact that people  _ knew _ now that he wasn’t travelling with the Witcher any more. People knew, now, that he was alone. That he didn’t have protection.

Jaskier wasn't completely useless with a dagger, of course; he had survived on his own long before traveling with the famous White Wolf, thank you. He obviously preferred to have Geralt step in and take care of things, but he knew how to use the sharp end of a blade in times of great need. The issue was that Jaskier wasn’t actually trained how to fight and much preferred to talk his way out of problems. When that failed, he wasn’t always strong enough or fast enough to stop whatever the problem was.

Sometimes it was jealous spouses or murderous fathers. Other times...other times, it was people who were either so used to getting what they wanted that the word “no” was meaningless to them or mistakenly assumed that because of his reputation Jaskier never actually did say “no.” Twenty-two years. He’d had twenty-two years with fewer and fewer of _those_ types of interactions, until they'd stopped entirely, his name so entwined with that of Geralt's that anyone who might have once thought to cross that line thought twice before even touching him. Now, they were happening in nearly every town. Usually just hands that were too forward, sometimes bodies pressed against his as he tried to pass in the narrow hallway of the inn where he was staying. He had taken to keeping a chair under the handle of his door every night, a knife beneath his pillow.

Other times, like tonight, those wandering hands and pressing bodies were less timid, less inclined to back off with when he maneuvered expertly around them. Those times, his chair and his dagger seemed like pitiful defenses and he...he was tired.

He knew it didn’t help that he perpetually looked to be in his twenties. He had looked this way for decades and would for decades to come, it was just a result of his parentage. Well, the elven blood and his excellent skin care routine. Still, he wished he had inherited something useful like incredible physical strength or magic. Instead he was just a pretty bard with a pretty voice and pretty poetry. 

Jaskier sighed heavily and leaned against the fallen tree he was currently using as a backrest, staring into the fire he’d built. It was a good one, warm and bright, without much smoke. Geralt would have been proud.

Or perhaps he wouldn’t. He shut down that line of thinking harshly. He didn’t want to think about Geralt right now, or possibly ever. He’d been lucky enough to tag along with him for a couple decades, go on some adventures, write a few songs. It was over. He’d been a fool to ever think they were actually friends, despite the witcher’s adamant protests to the contrary. His bleeding heart just loved too easily. Usually, he loved like flashpaper, bright and fast and fleeting, a lover for the night gone in the morning. He never expected anything different with Geralt. Oh, boy, had he been wrong.

He threw a twig into the fire angrily. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Geralt, damn it. What was wrong with him? He needed to sleep. He’d be fine in the morning.

He started to get up so he could pull out his bedroll, but a noise to his right startled him and he froze, fear leaping into his throat. A myriad of different monsters flashed through his mind. Several of them were human.

Another rustling sound, closer this time, had Jaskier pulling himself into a crouch, placing the fire between himself and the noise. He doubted it would do much, but perhaps it would do something. He pulled his dagger from his boot and held it defensively, blade parallel to his forearm.

He waited, sweating with fear, for whatever it was to make itself known. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere to go and he knew that he couldn’t outrun most things that would be hunting in the night. So he stayed put, waiting.

Finally, he saw a flash of white in the trees. He tensed, adjusting his grip on the dagger. Then, he saw it. A huge, white wolf, walking slowly out of the trees towards him. It was larger than any wolf he’d ever seen. Its paws looked larger than his face, he noticed somewhat hysterically. The wolf advanced until it was a few feet in front of the fire and stopped. It seemed to be waiting for something. Perhaps for its pack? Oh gods. He’s going to be eaten by a pack of wolves.

Jaskier hadn’t moved from his crouch behind the fire and the sweat from his palms was making his grip on the dagger slippery. He adjusted it again nervously. Nothing happened. No more wolves came from the treeline, no howls indicating his imminent, bloody death. Only the usual sounds of the forest at night and the unblinking, golden-eyed stare of the white wolf.

Jaskier let out a strained laugh at the irony of the situation. He’d travelled with the White Wolf for years, had his heart ripped out by him metaphorically, and now he was about to have his heart literally ripped out by a white wolf. It would make a great ballad. A tragic love story.

The wolf cocked his head at the sound of Jaskier’s laughter, but didn’t move closer. He seemed to be waiting for Jaskier to make the first move.

_ Fuck it _ , Jaskier thought, and stood up, moving slightly away from the fire. He didn’t put the knife away, but he lowered it to his side, doing his best to make no sudden movement that would alarm the wild predator before him.

He didn’t know why he did it. Perhaps it was his complete lack of self-preservation or just that he was so godsdamn tired. He took a couple, cautious steps toward the wolf and knelt to one knee, holding his hand out like he would to any stray dog he was trying to pet in the street.

To his shock, the wolf padded slowly over to him, stretching his neck to bump his cold nose against Jaskier’s palm. He shivered.

“Oh, wow,” he said, eloquently. “This is real. I wasn’t sure until just now.”

The wolf huffed a breath at him and bumped his palm again. Shakily, Jaskier moved his hand to pet the side of the wolf’s face, smoothing down the coarse white fur.

“You are gorgeous,” he breathed. “Thank you for not eating me, by the way. Would have been a terrible end to a terrible day.”

The wolf’s eyes had closed when Jaskier began petting its face, but they opened again at the sound of his voice and it whined, nudging its head against his hand. Jaskier finally put away his dagger and shifted closer, feeling brave.

“You like that, huh? Yeah, I get it.” He moved his hand from the wolf’s face to its neck, sinking his fingers into the deep fur to reach the soft undercoat. “Are you hungry? I’ve got some food left. Didn’t have much of an appetite tonight, unfortunately.”

The wolf’s eyes seemed inordinately intelligent as they stared at him. Jaskier pulled away and went to retrieve the remains of his dinner. He’d only just finished when the wolf had shown up, so it wasn’t completely cold yet. He set it down in front of it and backed away. The wolf looked down at the barely touched rabbit before looking back up and whining pitifully.

“What?” Jaskier asked. “Not good enough for you?”

If possible, the wolf looked even more distraught, but it ate the rabbit anyway, teeth crunching around the bones. Jaskier knew that he should feel more afraid in the wolf’s presence, but it hadn’t eaten him yet and he couldn’t summon any more energy to be afraid. He pulled out his bedroll while the wolf cleaned the bones, laying it next to the fire and settling down. When the wolf finished, it walked over to where Jaskier was lying and stretched out, its massive head resting on its paws.

“Oh, yeah? I get a companion for tonight? Alright. I’m just going to keep trusting that you won’t eat me and hope for the best.” Jaskier swore he saw the wolf’s eyes roll at that, but he ignored it and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He could already feel sleep ready to overtake him.

“Good night, wolf,” he said sleepily. The wolf gave a soft woof in response and Jaskier smiled, feeling somehow safe for the first time in months.


	2. Hearts Like Cracked Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has a nightmare. Geralt is a good emotional support dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art of being concise is not my forte. I have no idea how long this fic will be.

Being a wolf made it strangely easier to think. It stripped away the complications and streamlined everything into their basic components. He was a Witcher cursed to be a wolf, so he needed someone to reverse his curse. He was hungry, so he needed to eat. He was lonely, so he needed company.

That last, admittedly, was a bit more complicated. His first thought, when he realized he was lonely, was of Jaskier. It had been months since that awful dragon hunt in Craigorn, months since he’d seen the bard or heard his voice. He’d heard his songs, of course, all throughout the Continent, but never from the man’s own lips. Geralt had been trying to push him away for years and he had finally succeeded that day on the top of the mountain, the wind whipping almost as fiercely as his words. Later, when he’d been left alone, the wind had howled against his ears, as empty as his chest.

The adrenaline and the anger had faded, leaving behind only numbness. For the first time in his life, he’d actually felt nothing, as the rumors claimed. He’d continued feeling nothing for weeks, his ears ringing with that hollow wind in place of constant chatter and singing, and he’d been grateful for it.

And then, he’d heard that damn song. The lyrics to “Her Sweet Kiss” were so heartbroken, so shattered, that it made Geralt’s own, numb heart ache. It had cracked the ice and let the water bleed through to the lake’s surface and Geralt had raged. Silently, internally, he’d raged against himself for always fucking up his own life. For Renfri, for choosing the Law of Surprise, for allowing the bard to continue to tag along even though it could get him killed, for that damn wish, for wanting, for losing, for pushing away. It had made him even more reckless on hunts, a little less discerning with accepting jobs. Less vigilant against sadistic witches.

If he’d been in his right mind, he might have been able to talk himself out of looking for the bard, but as it was, his problem solving skills were reduced to: I’m lonely, I need to find Jaskier. And so he found him.

Jaskier was camping not far from town, which was surprising. The entire time Geralt had travelled with the man, he’d insisted on sleeping in inns with warm beds and hot baths at every opportunity rather than sleep in the woods. Yet here he was, staring into a fire like it held all the secrets of the universe. He was so quiet that at first Geralt worried he’d found the wrong person, that this couldn’t be Jaskier. But he smelled like Jaskier. He looked like Jaskier. Geralt stepped closer, so intent on making sure that the man in front of him was his bard that he nearly didn’t notice the stick snap beneath his paw until Jaskier looked sharply in his direction, his scent now tinged with fear.

Geralt risked moving closer, but his body still wasn’t as graceful as it used to be, still too new, and he made another noise as he tried to step over a root. This time Jaskier shot up into a defensive crouch, a blade flashing in his hand. Geralt was impressed, if a bit shocked. He didn’t know Jaskier even knew  _ how _ to hold a dagger. His stance and grip showed that he more than knew how, that he’d done it before, and effectively.

Therefore Geralt was cautious as he revealed himself, moving deliberately, letting Jaskier see that his intentions were not to attack. He hated smelling the fear on him, hated waiting for him to finally relax. He hoped that Jaskier would at least allow him to stay close, that he wouldn’t try to attack with that dagger. Jaskier, of course, was full of surprises, instead reaching his hand out to what he thought of as a wild wolf, trying to pet it like a dog.

Even more surprising was how much Geralt  _ liked _ the petting. Jaskier’s hand in his fur was distracting, almost distracting enough to miss Jaskier’s words.

“Thank you for not eating me, by the way. Would have been a terrible end to a terrible day.”

The way Jaskier had said “a terrible day” made something in Geralt’s chest pull. What had happened to him? Is that why he was sleeping in the woods rather than in the comfort of an inn, as he would prefer? There was a town close by, close enough to smell, and there was no reason he could discern for Jaskier to be camping in the wilderness. Geralt whined, the only sound he could make to voice his questions.

Jaskier hadn’t understood the whine at all, of course, but then his hand had moved to pet the fur on his neck and Geralt forgot again for a moment. Until the rabbit. Jaskier had hardly eaten any of the rabbit that he had obviously killed and cooked himself. It seemed like a lot of wasted effort. It was also highly concerning. Was he sick? He didn’t smell sick. He smelled...like chamomile and sunshine, lute strings and sweat, flowers and blood. Blood? Geralt whined again, but Jaskier thought he was just a wolf being picky about the food. Geralt was frustrated, but he didn’t know what to do about it. And he  _ was _ hungry. He ate the rabbit.

When Jaskier settled down for the night, Geralt lay down close to him, prepared to keep watch. He was gratified by the small smile on the bard’s face as he went to sleep, even as his nose kept picking up the scent of blood this close to him.

It was a few hours into the night when Jaskier began to twitch. Geralt raised his head off his paws, concerned. Jaskier made a soft noise of distress and thrashed against the blanket. His eyes were squeezed shut, his expression pained. Geralt inched closer and pushed his nose into the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier didn’t wake up, just kept thrashing and moaning, tears now leaking from the corner of his eyes. Geralt nudged harder and whined.

Jaskier’s next flail nearly caught Geralt in the snout, but he dodged just in time. He barked, trying to get Jaskier to wake up. The sharp sound caused the man to sit up with a gasp, one hand reaching instinctively for the dagger under his pillow, his eyes looking around wildly.

Strangely, when he saw Geralt, he relaxed, his shoulders dropping their tension, his fingers releasing their grip on the hilt of the dagger. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Jaskier said, his voice rough. “Thank Melitele.” Then he laughed. “You know your life is fucked up when you’re thanking the gods that you woke up to a wild wolf rather than a human.”

Human? What human? Was he talking about whoever hurt him? Geralt moved closer, hoping to urge the bard to talk more. Which was...different.

Jaskier sighed and reached out to sink his fingers into Geralt’s fur again. It felt just as nice as it did before and he couldn’t help but lean into it. Jaskier obliged, his nimble fingers combing through the thick layers. 

“You know, I used to travel with someone called the White Wolf. Kind of ironic that you found me.” There was a long pause and Jaskier’s fingers flowed through Geralt’s fur as he thought. “Your fur is really nice. It’s coarser on the top than I thought it would be, but underneath it’s so soft. I feel like that’s a metaphor for something. Maybe you’re more similar to my other White Wolf than expected.”

Geralt huffed and shifted so he could lean his side against Jaskier fully. “I didn’t mean to say that. ‘My White Wolf’.” Jaskier made a face at himself, something mocking and sad. It didn’t suit him at all. “He wasn’t. Mine, I mean. Well, he was my friend, even if I wasn’t his. And people  _ thought _ I was his...friend, or bard, or travel companion, whatever. And everyone knows it’s people’s perception that matters. That’s why I worked so hard to change their perception of him. He didn’t deserve to be treated like he did. No one does, really, but especially not him. I didn’t know what it would mean when people realized I wasn’t travelling with him anymore. Or how much worse it would be than before. I got too used to being protected, I guess. I forgot what it was like to not have that.”

He paused again, fingers still absently running up and down Geralt’s back. Geralt felt like he’d been gutted. Had people attacked Jaskier...because of him?

“It’s my fault, really,” Jaskier continued. “I’ve been alive this long and I still barely know how to fight. I do okay if there’s only one or two, and if they’re not particularly good fighters, but otherwise? Not a chance. Totally useless.”

Geralt made a noise of protest, or as close to one as he could manage, and pressed closer, causing Jaskier to sway before pressing back.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m being terribly maudlin. Just the mood I’ve been in lately, I guess. I’m glad I’m not alone tonight though. I’m still not entirely sure you’re not a figment of my imagination, come to comfort me in my hour of need. Either way, I’m grateful. So thank you.”

He continued petting Geralt’s fur, growing calmer. He shifted so he was sitting more comfortably, his blanket pooled in his lap, and absentmindedly twirled a ring on his right middle finger. It was one that he’d had the entire time Geralt had known him, one of the few pieces that never changed in the endless array of finery that Jaskier somehow acquired. If it wasn’t on one of his hands, it was on a chain around his neck. Geralt figured it must have some sort of sentimental value, something he’d never bothered to ask about before.

Eventually, Jaskier’s hand began to slow and his head drifted to the side to rest against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt twisted his head to look down at him. Part of him was already crafting a lecture for when he got his voice back to explain to the bard that he should  _ never _ trust a wild animal like this, but another, more selfish part of him, greedily soaked up the closeness and the trust, letting it soothe the cracks in his heart.

Dawn found them lying side by side, Geralt having finally maneuvered Jaskier into laying down since he would not have been comfortable sleeping slumped against Geralt’s shoulder all night. Jaskier tried to push Geralt away when he poked his cold nose against the bare skin of his neck to wake him, but eventually gave in and opened his eyes, blinking in the dim morning light.

Jaskier stretched and winced. “Fuck, ow. Godsdamn it all.”

Geralt had also been stretching himself awake, but he stopped and turned toward the bard at his outburst. Jaskier had one hand around his ribs as he packed up his belongings and he was limping. A visceral image of tearing apart whoever had hurt Jaskier with his new, sharp teeth entered Geralt’s mind, bloody and protective.

Geralt stepped closer, trying to sniff out exactly where Jaskier was injured. He could smell that there was blood pooling beneath the skin above his ribs on the left side, a large bruise, and more blood on his pants.

“Woah, there! I know we cuddled last night but that’s a bit too friendly,” Jaskier protested. Geralt backed away. He hadn’t intended to get so close. He supposed he would have to keep an eye on his new wolfish instincts.

“It’s alright, no need to look like a scolded puppy. Though, I suppose you are, in a way.” Geralt growled a bit at that. He might be a wolf now but he was not a  _ puppy _ . His growl only caused Jaskier to laugh. “Oh yeah, you definitely remind me of Geralt.”

He was still chuckling to himself as he started on the road. Geralt begrudgingly followed, still feeling a bit wrong footed and also concerned about Jaskier's injuries. Jaskier seemed surprised, but pleased, to see Geralt trotting along beside him.

“So you’re coming with me, eh? I have been wanting another adventure. And I’m sure I’ll be able to write plenty of songs about you. I’ve already got a few in mind, actually.”

Geralt didn’t respond, just kept walking, but his tail betrayed him with a twitch.


	3. Shadows of the Sunlit Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier leaves his new wolf companion behind to go into town. The sun is shining, the day is bright, and Jaskier should know better than to expect his day to be entirely without incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is definitely some violence in this chapter. (Geralt definitely gets to protect his bard, is what I'm saying)

It was well into evening before they made it to the next town. Jaskier spent the entire journey regaling his new lupine friend with tales of his grandest adventures, singing him his best songs, and bouncing ideas off him for new ballads. The wolf never responded, of course, given that he was an animal, but it was absurdly comforting to have someone walking beside him to talk to. 

“I’ve been trying to stick with more traditional songs of late, following the structure of the old Elvish ballads. Like Elaine Ettariel, for example. It’s not exactly the kind of thing people want to hear in taverns, but I’ve been playing in courts more often now and they appreciate the finer arts. Plus it’s rather fun. Almost more fun than the raunchy tavern ones sometimes. Reminds me that I actually went to university for something.”

Jaskier could almost swear that the wolf was listening to him, hanging on his every word. Perhaps that was just his ego talking. Or his extreme loneliness. He decided he didn’t much care so long as he had an audience and kept talking animatedly all the way to town.

A few times, the pair were passed by other travellers, usually merchants hauling goods or driving carts recently emptied of their wares. Each time, Jaskier tried to calm his racing heart, his fingers digging deep into the rich, white fur of the wolf at his side, thankful that the beast was so large that his shoulders reached Jaskier’s waist and he provided easy comfort. Jaskier did his best to smile and nod at the passersby, but they always took one look at the intimidating wolf with his piercing gold eyes and impressive bulk and flicked their horses’ reins to urge them to go faster. Jaskier always breathed a small sigh of relief when they passed out of sight.

The only small mercy that Jaskier had been granted was that his glamor still held. He twirled the ring on his finger reflexively, trying not to think about what would happen if something happened to it. It was only a small spell, since not much was really needed to hide his more...inhuman features. Just a bit to round out his ears, dampen the glow the emanated from his skin, his eyes, shroud the hint of  _ otherness _ that surrounded him like an aura. 

He shook himself abruptly, angry that he couldn’t seem to rid himself of these dark thoughts of late. He always knew the world was full of shadows, always knew the dangers it held, but he had never stopped seeing the light in it. It wasn’t until that day on the mountain that the darkness seemed a bit darker, the light a bit dimmer. His smile was always a bit harder to reach for these days. He hated it.

“So, wolf,” he said with forced brightness, in an effort to distract himself, “I think if we are to be travelling companions I ought to have a name for you other than ‘wolf’, don’t you? Seems very unimaginative if you ask me. What about...Nimbus? Like a cloud?”

The wolf looked decidedly unimpressed.

“Okay, not that one. Um. Bear. Ghost. Winter. Snow. Daisy. Potato. I’m literally just naming things that are white now.”

The wolf looked at him like if he could roll his eyes and groan, he would. Instead, he just trotted ahead a bit, making Jaskier have to lengthen his stride to keep up. He ignored the pain that the increased movement caused and put his hand on the wolf’s back.

“I’m sorry if I offended you. I wasn’t actually going to name you Potato. Although it would be kinda cute.” He narrowly avoided the nipping teeth that threatened to catch his fingers. “Okay, okay, point taken. Did you like  _ any _ of those though? I really can’t just keep calling you ‘the wolf’ forever.” He was speaking to the animal in reasonable tones, as though he could convince him with words alone. He blocked out the mental comparison to Geralt talking to his horse in a similar manner and pressed on. “Ghost wasn’t too bad. Might come off as a bit intimidating though, especially since you’re already kinda scary. No offense,” he added quickly.

The wolf huffed, but he had slowed down so that Jaskier wasn’t straining himself to keep pace anymore, so he counted it as a win.

“What about Winter? It fits. The snow white fur, the fluffiness that implies you could definitely keep warm in the middle of a blizzard. Plus I could  _ definitely  _ work that into a song.”

They walked along in silence for a few seconds while he let the wolf consider. He wasn’t sure  _ why _ he was giving the wolf time to answer, given that he probably hadn’t actually understood a word Jaskier had said anyway, but it just seemed like the polite thing to do. It was also a habit left over from travelling with Geralt, who often needed time to think things through before answering.

Finally the wolf gently nudged Jaskier’s leg with his side and gave a soft woof. It could have meant anything. It could have meant that he was happy about the walk he was getting or that he was hungry. Jaskier chose to think it meant he liked his new name.

“Alright!” he exclaimed happily, clapping his hands together. The wolf winced slightly at the sudden noise but didn’t otherwise react. “Winter it is!”

Jaskier continued to ramble about anything and everything until the town came into sight, at which point he stopped and pulled far off the side of the road and leaned over to be eye level with the wolf. Not that it was particularly difficult to do so, given how massive he was.

“Okay. I have to go into town. I don’t have much money left, so I need to perform tonight and I need supplies. But I can’t take you with me. I’m sorry.”

Winter whined and stared at him with his sad golden eyes. It nearly broke Jaskier’s resolve, but how could he take a giant wolf into town with him? He would certainly frighten people, despite his apparently gentle nature, and the townspeople might run them out or even attack them. People tended to be cruel to things they were frightened of.

“I know, buddy. But you have to stay here, okay? I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise. I’ll even bring you something.”

To his surprise, Winter whined again and leaned forward, his head resting on Jaskier’s shoulder in the wolf version of a hug. Jaskier wrapped his arms around him in return and buried his face into his fur, breathing deep to steady himself before he had to go into the fray. His ribs were still badly bruised and although the bleeding had stopped, his lower body was sore and aching beyond belief. He felt like an exposed nerve, raw and vulnerable. He had no choice though. He had no food left and no medical supplies, not to mention he was in sore need of a bath. The promise of a hot meal and a tankard of ale was also alluring. 

With a sigh he pushed himself back up and away from the wolf, pulling on his best performance persona as he did so. It fit like a second skin, familiar. He adjusted the lute on his back and the smile on his face until he felt ready and stroked Winter’s head one last time.

“See ya tomorrow, Winter. I hope you’re still around.”

He walked confidently into the nearest tavern, having paused in front of a shop window on the way to adjust his clothing and hair to make sure he was at least mostly presentable. At least the colors he was wearing, plum purple with lilac details, hid the bloodstains fairly well. 

To his relief, his name and songs were already known here, as small as this town was. The barkeep wasted no time in handing him an ale and gesturing for him to start performing and Jaskier obliged easily. He sang and danced, engaging the crowd with songs they knew, entertaining them with ones they didn’t. He ignored the hands that brushed his shoulders, arms, back, thighs. He winked at the women he twirled past and sank into his role as performer, determined to shine as brightly as he could tonight if he could not seem to find the light outside himself.

When he was finished, sweating and out of breath, he had a sizable collection of coin as his prize for the night. He grinned, weighing it in his palm briefly before stowing it away in his pocket. It would be more than enough to buy what he needed, a room and bath for the night included. He would even be able to get something for Winter, like he’d promised. He wasn’t sure why he felt so attached to the wolf, having only known him for a day, but he did.

“Hey,” said a soft, almost timid voice. Jaskier looked up. The voice belonged to a dark haired woman with deep brown eyes, one of the ones he’d sung to during his performance. She was dressed in fine silks and the softest of wool, far better quality than that most of the other patrons, and tiny shimmering gems danced along her collar bone, dangled from her ears, perched on her fingers. 

“Hello,” he greeted her cheerily. He always loved talking to a fan. “Did you enjoy my performance tonight?”

“Oh, yes. Very much. I’ve actually seen you perform before, in Novigrad. I was there a few months ago with my father. He had business with the duke.”

Ah. Jaskier remembered. He had performed at the duke’s estate a few months ago, when the wound from Geralt’s harsh words and far more hurtful indifference was even fresher. He had gotten fantastically drunk by the end and had woken up in bed with the duchess. She had grinned at him, sharp and predatory, while he dressed and he’d felt that sick swoop in his belly that warned that he needed to leave fast before things got worse.

“A tavern performance is not quite the same as that of a court, I’m afraid. I’m glad you enjoyed it all the same.”

She smiled at him, the barest hint of teeth showing through her lipsticked lips. “You seem like the type that is in his element wherever he goes. It is rather impressive.” Her tone was no longer timid. She stepped forward brazenly into his personal space, one hand reaching out to rest lightly on his chest. Her long, pink nails reminded him of talons above his heart. “So talented. I’ve heard tales of...all your talents.”

Ice slid down his spine. Still, he smiled flirtatiously and leaned in closer, her hand pressing flat against his chest. “Have you now?”

“Yes,” she purred. “Perhaps you could show me if any of those stories are true?”

The woman truly was beautiful. Flawless brown skin, full lips, lively, sparkling eyes that promised all manner of sins. But Jaskier still felt fragile, dirty from the attack of the night before and the travelling since. He wanted only a bath and sleep. In solitude.

She must have seen the answer in his expression because the playful glint in her eye faded and she withdrew her hand, her nails scraping lightly over his doublet. “I see. Fine. Good night, bard. It was nice meeting you.”

She turned on her heel and walked away before Jaskier had a chance to reply. He didn’t know what he would say to explain himself anyway. In all likelihood, if he’d been allowed to speak, he would have just dug himself a deeper hole. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before gathering his things and heading to his room. It was small, barely large enough to fit the bed and small dresser that were shoved inside, but he’d convinced the tavern owner to let him stay the night for free in exchange for all the business he’d brought in that night so he wasn’t complaining. He set down his lute and his bag before leaving again in search of the bath he’d paid for.

There was a room down the hall for bathing, the water blessedly hot, and Jaskier quickly climbed in, moaning at the soothing heat that enveloped him. The water seemed to cradle his tender body, holding it gently and brushing away the worst of the soreness in his legs, his back, his ass. He scrubbed the dirt and blood from his skin and hair, feeling more like himself with every passing minute in the tub. When the water started to cool, he pulled himself out and dried off hurriedly, wanting to go to sleep as soon as possible now that he was clean and fed and paid.

There was no chair, so he pushed the dresser in front of the door before he undressed and climbed wearily into bed, his body aching. Exhaustion bled from his skin down to his marrow and he fell asleep before his head even touched the pillow, his last thought of his mysterious white wolf in the woods, who he hoped was still waiting for him.

He woke when the sun had already dragged its way across the horizon, marking that it was midmorning. He groaned and stretched, feeling leagues better than he had the day before. He dressed in a different, cleaner outfit in various shades of blue and green that reminded him of the sea. It was one of his favorites and it served to improve his already markedly more buoyant mood as he gathered his things and went downstairs in search of breakfast. 

The tavern keeper was clearly not a morning person, greeting him with a grumpy expression and monosyllabic responses to his requests for food and recommendations on where to get the supplies he needed. He didn’t mind though, keeping up his smile and thanking the man profusely for his advice and for the lovely meal of eggs, toast, and sausage he brought to Jaskier’s table. His persistent cheeriness eventually won him a small smile in return and a polite nod before the man walked away though, so Jaskier cherished his small victory.

Once fed, he headed to the market, aiming for the stalls the tavern keeper had suggested. His advice had been sound; the prices were fair and the goods were of decent quality. He ended up with a pack full of dried meat, fruit, and vegetables, a few small satchels of spices, a new dagger with a tightly bound leather grip, and a freshly stocked medical kit. His purse ended up much lighter than he’d expected, but still he made sure to buy plenty of extra jerky for his new, furry companion before he left the market.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun was bright in the sky, lending pleasant warmth which made it feel almost like summer, despite the fact that it was nearing mid-autumn. He hummed to himself as he walked, pleased at how well his trip had gone. He should have known better than to expect everything to go so smoothly for him, of course, as he seemed to be a magnet for all things disastrous and terrible.

He was nearly at the edge of town when he realized he was being followed. It was just a feeling, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, but he was immediately on guard, casting his eyes about for any sign of the person (he hoped it was just a person and not a monster) that was pursuing him. If he were lucky, it would just be a stray dog or a curious child. He was never that lucky.

The feeling persisted as he passed through the town’s gates, admittedly very poor defense against anything more sinister than an intrepid deer, and he felt himself growing more and more tense. He wondered if he should turn back and return to the tavern, just to be around witnesses, perhaps someone who would intervene if something went wrong. Then again, that had rarely helped him in the past so he didn’t entertain that thought for very long.

Just as he was about to start climbing the hill where he’d last seen Winter, he heard a rustling behind him and whirled around, dagger drawn. His newest dagger was tucked away in his pack with the rest of this morning’s purchases, so he only had the one at his disposal. The grip settled with nauseating familiarity in Jaskier’s palm. He eyed his pursuer warily, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It was only one man, dressed in plain brown woolen clothes, standing in the middle of the road a few paces away from him. He was staring at Jaskier with a deprecatingly amused smile on his face.

“Hello, bardling. Where are you running off to?”

Jaskier cleared his throat before he answered. “I’m not  _ running _ anywhere. As you pointed out, I’m a bard. I have places to go, taverns to sing in, courts to entertain. You know how it is.”

The man stepped closer and Jaskier stepped back reflexively, only to crash into a solid mass behind him. He swallowed a frustrated groan. Obviously, he’d miscounted how many men were in the woods with him.

He struck fast, aiming his dagger for what he hoped were the ribs of the man behind him, but the man was faster, and stronger, and merely caught his wrist, twisting it cruelly until he dropped the blade to the ground. 

“He’s got fire, don’t he, Ferran?” the man in front of him crowed, stalking forward until he was close enough to grab Jaskier by his jaw and grip tightly. “Still, we should make sure he don’t try that again. Wouldn’t want to lose any valuable parts today.”

The man behind him, Ferran, was now holding his biceps with bruising force. He laughed as Jaskier struggled, but his laughter quickly turned to a hiss of pain when Jaskier lifted his foot and slammed it into Ferran’s knee as hard as he could, twisting his body away from both men simultaneously as he heard the crunch of bone and Ferran’s fingers loosened automatically.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get far before Not-Ferran pulled out his own dagger, gleaming obscenely in the sunlight, and placed it against Jaskier’s throat.

“Now, now,” he said, his tone light, “none of that. You were so nice last night, dancing around, teasing everyone. Making everyone want you. Then you turned down that rich blooded Zofia, like you were too good for her. You aren’t. Just like you aren’t too good for us, isn’t that right, Ferran?”

“I- I don’t -” Jaskier started to protest, but the dagger pressed more firmly against his skin, drawing blood, and he stopped talking to focus on hyperventilating.

They dragged him deeper into the woods, farther off the path than they already were, and Jaskier felt like he weighed nothing to them as they manhandled him through the trees. They were both large men, only a few inches taller than himself but clearly built for manual labor while he had been built far more delicately. Not that he was small, of course, people were often surprised by how muscular he was beneath his ostentatious outfits, but certainly compared to these men he was more of an inconvenience to be hauled rather than a difficulty, despite how heavily Ferran was now limping. 

When they judged the distance far enough, the two men pulled at Jaskier’s pack and lute, tossing them haphazardly to the ground. He shouldn’t care about his instrument in the face of what was happening, he knew that, but Jaskier couldn’t help but send a quick prayer up to whatever gods were listening that his lute was unharmed. He would survive this, most likely, in which case he’d need his lute to make a living. And to keep himself somewhat sane.

“I think you guys are making a big mistake,” Jaskier tried to reason, but was cut off by his head slamming forcefully against the trunk of a tree as one of them, Ferran he thought, shoved him against it with a growled, “shut up!”

Perhaps it was just his imagination, or possibly the concussion, but Ferran’s growl sounded a lot more animalistic than he was expecting. Deeper. More primal. He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the inevitable, his heart pounding in his chest.

“What the fuck is that?” Ferran exclaimed wildly, still holding Jaskier against the tree with one hand. Jaskier opened his eyes and chanced a look around. Both of his attackers were staring behind him, equal expressions of terror on their faces.

“Holy shit,” Not-Ferran said. That’s when Jaskier noticed that the growl had started again and it certainly wasn’t coming from either of the two men. He felt a surge of hope in his chest so powerful that it brought tears to his eyes.

“Winter!” he cried, hoping he was right. “Please, gods, tell me that’s you.”

A snarl was his answer, followed by a white blur leaping past him to sink its jaws into Not-Ferran’s throat. A brutal shake, followed by the sickening snap of bone, and the man fell limply from the wolf’s jaws, dead.

Winter turned, the white fur on his face and neck stained with blood, and lifted his lips to growl at Ferran, stalking closer with huge, silent paws. Ferran was frozen in terror, staring. Jaskier, however, was not, and he quickly shoved the man off him, directly into the path of the wolf. Ferran’s death was as quick as his companion’s. Jaskier couldn’t say he was sorry for it.

He was trembling, one hand braced against the rough bark of the tree that he had just been pressed against, when Winter turned to him. The great wolf was, objectively, one of the most terrifying sights Jaskier had ever seen. His muzzle was coated in thick, dark red blood which was dripping down to the forest floor. It coated his teeth, razor sharp in his panting mouth as he stared back at him, his golden eyes wild with the hunt, but strangely hesitant now that it was over.

Winter made no move toward him, so Jaskier decided to take the first step, as he had the other night. He reached out his hand and lowered himself to his knees, still using the tree for support. At his silent invitation, Winter finally stepped toward him, slowly, and lowered his head. Jaskier let his fingers sink into the wolf’s fur, a motion that was quickly becoming familiar and one of his favorite feelings, and sagged forward. The wolf moved forward quickly as though to catch him and Jaskier let his other arm fall to wrap around Winter’s massive shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Winter let his head rest gently on Jaskier’s shoulder as he had the first time they had hugged like this and Jaskier couldn’t stop the sob that escaped him. He dug his fingers more deeply into soft undercoat and held on like his life depended on it, letting the tears fall. It felt like it took forever to calm himself, to let the sobs scrape him out hollow from the inside out, but when he blinked and sat back with a rough inhale he realized it had only been a few minutes.

“We should go,” he told Winter, his wonderful protector. “We can’t be here when they find the bodies.”

He picked up his pack and lute, grateful that nothing had spilled out, and took a brief moment to check on the state of the discarded instrument. There wasn’t a scratch on her.

“Oh thank all the gods,” he breathed. “I don’t know if I could have handled that.”

Winter was looking at him with sad, serious eyes so Jaskier gave him a small smile and showed him the lute, despite how ridiculous the gesture might be.

“See?” he said. “Not damaged at all, the hardy girl. Then again, most things of Elvish make are, I suppose. Anyway, don’t know what I would’ve done if they’d broken my lute, since I can’t afford a new one right now. Might have gotten pretty bad there for a while. Guess my luck is finally turning around, eh, Winter?”

Winter, ever the conversationalist, got up and leaned bodily against Jaskier’s leg. It reminded him of a dog his childhood friend used to have. Daisy was a large dog, far smaller than Winter of course, but she loved to be as close to people as she could manage and often showed affection by leaning against you so hard you’d fall over. Or at least, Jaskier had, given that he was eight years old at the time and rather small for his age.

Jaskier smiled down at him again and stroked his back. Perhaps Winter wasn’t all wolf, which was why he was so tame and affectionate. It would certainly go a long way to explaining some things if he were part dog. Then again, he’d never seen any canine, dog or wolf, as large as Winter. 

With one final stroke down Winter’s back, Jaskier turned and started for the main road, securing his lute to his back as he walked. Winter kept pace with him with ease, brushing his side against Jaskier’s hip and leg occasionally as they made their way back through the underbrush and leaf litter.

They were a lot farther down the road than Jaskier anticipated when they finally emerged. It was late afternoon now, edging toward evening, and Jaskier was not looking forward to finding somewhere along the road to camp for the night. It couldn’t be helped, though, so he might as well put in some distance before then.

However, before he could choose the left fork in the road that continued south, the direction Jaskier had been meandering for some time now, he was stopped by the wolf. Winter was sitting in the middle of the road, staring intently down the right fork, nose twitching as though he were searching for something.

“Winter?”

The wolf looked back at him and then took a few steps onto the right hand path, silently urging Jaskier to follow. Jaskier glanced back at the path to the left before shrugging and following Winter to the right. He hadn’t been headed anywhere specific anyway, and the wolf  _ had _ just saved his life. He supposed he could indulge the whim of choosing one path over another. What could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:  
> *Jaskier is being very dense about this whole thing and I, for one, find it amusing but also understandable. If a weird wolfdog chose you as their human, would you automatically assume it was your cursed ex-best friend? Or even a human at all? I don't think I would. There might also be some willful ignorance on Jaskier's part though.  
> *I think Jaskier's determination to see the good people and in the world is my absolute favorite thing about him and I am so sorry for breaking him a bit. Things are starting to get better for him though! Mostly. Probably. We'll see.


	4. You Want a Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want a revelation  
> You want to get it right  
> But, it's a conversation  
> I just can't have tonight  
> Tell me what you want me to say  
> -No Light, No Light by Florence + the Machine

Geralt couldn’t stop seeing the look of mingled terror and resignation on Jaskier’s face as the two men held him at knife-point against the tree. Geralt had heard the commotion and had come to investigate, moving in a wide, stalking circle around the trio so he could assess the situation. It didn’t look good. The way they spoke to him, the way they touched him, it made Geralt’s blood burn hot in his veins and a low snarl rip from his throat. He did not regret their deaths.

What he did regret was how he had never noticed these details about Jaskier he was now privy to as a wolf. He was a witcher. He should have noticed that the man who traveled with him for over two decades was both stronger and more vulnerable than he let on. In his mind’s eye, as they walked together down the path toward the town where - hopefully - Roach was still waiting for him unharmed, he saw Jaskier pull away from him on the hill and pull on a mask of gaiety and charm. Had it always been an act? Now Geralt wasn’t sure, and it bothered him. He wished he had a voice to ask.

“Would you like some?” Geralt turned at the sound of Jaskier’s voice, seeing him holding out some dried meat. “I did promise to bring you something back, didn’t I?”

Jaskier’s grin was like a knife to his heart. How could he still be so cheerful after everything that happened? Did he have no sense of self-preservation? It occurred to him that perhaps the bard did not, in fact, have a healthy regard for his own safety, given that he’d traveled with Geralt for twenty-two years. 

The smile started to fade when Geralt didn’t move to take the treat. “Aw, come on. I promise it’s good. And it’s the least I can do for you saving my life.” He held his hand out a little farther, nearly touching the meat to Geralt’s nose.

He opened his jaws gingerly and took the food, careful of his sharp teeth, and pulled it away from Jaskier’s hand before snapping the whole thing into his mouth and chewing. It  _ was _ good, if a bit tough to chew, and he was grateful for the snack.

Jaskier’s hand found its way to his back, stroking lightly. “See? I told you.” He shoved a handful of dried berries into his own mouth before speaking around the food, “You seem to have an idea of where you’re going. Do you live somewhere this way? Do you have a human?”

Geralt tilted his head at this to glance at him askance. Did he have a human? Yes, he supposed he did, though that human was currently using his shoulder as a half-crutch as they walked toward Zamosc. In fact, the weight that was bearing down on him was concerning and he wondered if Jaskier was more injured than he’d realized. He turned his head to sniff at the bard’s legs, searching for the scent of blood. The old scent of iron and rust was gone, washed away by the bath Jaskier must have had in town, and there was no fresh blood on his pants. His nose traveled upward, twitching. Jaskier seemed to be leaning more heavily on him as they went on, his feet unsteady beneath him, though he gamely tried to keep going, one stumbling step after another.

Geralt pulled them both off the road and into a thicket of trees, where they would be hidden from curious passersby. He stopped at the foot of a sturdy looking oak and did his best to gesture for Jaskier to sit.

“Wha- what are you doing? Did you find something, Winter?” His words sounded slightly slurred and Geralt felt panicked. He grabbed the edge of Jaskier’s doublet with his teeth and pulled him to the ground to sit on the grass and fallen leaves. He began checking the bard from head to toe for the source of the injury, mostly using his nose since his eyesight wasn’t nearly as good as it had been before he was turned into a wolf, and finally found the spot where blood was still drying thick and sticky in Jaskier’s hair. 

“‘S okay, Winter,” Jaskier tried to assure him weakly. “It’s just a concussion, I think. I’m a bit dizzy and tired, but I’m not vomiting so I’m not too worried.” He interrupted himself with a yawn and reached up to hold the side of his head. “Oof, maybe no rush of oxygen to the brain for a while though, yeah?”

‘Yeah, and what do you know about treating a concussion?’ Geralt thought irritably, growling a bit in his frustration. He had no idea what to do. If he still had opposable thumbs and a horse, he would simply hoist Jaskier into the saddle and ride into town to find a healer to look at the wound. As it was, he was stuck with useless paws and no way to help Jaskier at all. He huffed and paced in front of the tree, stepping nimbly over sprawled, satin clad legs.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier said soothingly, as though  _ he _ were the one that had been set upon by human monsters and left with mild head trauma. “I’m starting to feel much better now that I’m sitting down, honestly. You know, I’ve never had someone so worried over me before. Except maybe Geralt, but I’m not sure that counts since I don’t think he really cared about me so much as it was a point of professional pride that I didn’t die on his watch.”

The knife of guilt twisted savagely in Geralt’s heart. He stopped pacing and stood staring at Jaskier, feeling like a worse type of monster than the men whose blood he could still taste between his teeth. He knew he had snapped at Jaskier that day, had taken out his anger and confusion and hurt on the nearest, easy target, but had Jaskier really thought that he didn’t care about him at all, in all those years? 

He had never said as much, not in so many words, but he had become much more comfortable around the bard as the years progressed. Most importantly, he never actually sent him away or left him behind, though he could have easily done so. He always shared his food, his space, even his bedroll when the nights were long and cold. To him, it was the small things that betrayed his true feelings. Actions spoke louder than words, after all. Yet, he was coming to realize, perhaps a few words would have gone a long way.

“Don’t look at me with those sad eyes, Winter,” Jaskier admonished, waving his hand as though to brush away some canine sympathy. “I assure you I’m quite over it.” His words tasted like a lie. 

Jaskier looked at him closer then, head tilting to the side curiously. “You know, I’ve been chalking it up to my overactive imagination and poetic spirit, but I would almost swear you were human beneath all that fur and scary teeth.”

Geralt’s ears pricked forward hopefully and he gave a short woof. Maybe Jaskier would finally realize who he was! Then again, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a good turn of events, given how badly he had hurt him. Jaskier would probably not be very keen on helping him if he knew who he really was. The thought made his tail, which had risen into an excited wag at the prospect of Jaskier seeing through the curse, droop low and still.

“Are you?” Jaskier gasped. His blue eyes were round with shock and wonder. “If you’re human, bark twice.”

Geralt considered for a moment, uncertain. Then, he decided that even if Jaskier knew he wasn’t really a wolf, he wouldn’t know who he was until the curse was lifted, when Geralt had a voice to apologize. He barked twice.

Jaskier whooped with glee and grinned fiercely. “I  _ knew  _ it! I mean, I didn’t  _ know  _ exactly, obviously, but I thought there was something odd about you. Have you been cursed? You must have been cursed. I wonder what you did to piss off someone powerful enough to do…” he gestured vaguely at Geralt, “ _ that. _ I mean, I’m guessing you’re a large man to start with otherwise you wouldn’t be nearly so large a wolf but, whoo, you’re impressive. Are you okay? I mean, as okay as you can be, considering? Are you in any pain?”

Geralt wondered if Jaskier had breathed at all during all of that. He shook his head, both in answer to Jaskier’s question about being in pain and at the ridiculousness of him asking if  _ Geralt _ was okay when he was the one who was just  _ attacked _ . A fact that only one of them seemed to remember at this point, concussion be damned.

“Good, excellent,” Jaskier beamed. “Not for you, probably, but this is the exact kind of thing that people base fairy tales on! The best ballads could not come from better truths. Now, we need to figure out how to de-curse you. Were you leading me down this road for a reason?”

Geralt did his best to nod, though it felt ungainly and awkward. 

“Okay. We definitely need a communication system going. Something simple like one bark for yes, two barks for no?”

Geralt could see that he would quickly get tired of this, but he barked once anyway. At least he would be able to answer simple questions.

“Awesome. Well what are we still sitting here for? Let’s go!” Jaskier struggled to his feet and checked his lute and bag before gesturing for Geralt to lead the way. “I will follow you, my furry friend. Let’s find that cure.”

Geralt huffed and internally rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s theatrics. Secretly though, it was nice to see a bit of the old Jaskier back, loquacious and excitable, with a lively spark lighting the blue of his eyes. It was obvious that he still felt a bit dizzy and his head still hurt, but the excitement went a long way toward keeping him steady and mobile and he refused Geralt’s attempts to get him to sit back down.

“So, first question, do you know the person who did this to you?”

No.

“Do you know how to lift the curse?”

Also no.

“Is the person who cursed you in the direction we’re heading?”

Geralt didn’t know, but he doubted it. He couldn’t say all of that, so he just barked twice, feeling more annoyed by the second.

“Okay. Do you like being a wolf?”

This brought him up short and he glanced sharply at Jaskier who was walking amiably by his side, looking thoughtful. Did he like being a wolf? It seemed a ridiculous question at first, but then, as he thought about it, he supposed there were a few things he liked about his new form. There was a sense of freedom to it, stripping away the confines of civility and artifice that are required for interacting with people who hide their hatred of him with varying degrees of success. Other than the lack of weapons and horse, there wasn’t too much different about living as a wolf versus living as a witcher. He still slept in the woods beneath the trees and the stars, still hunted for his food, still felt the power of his own coiled strength in his body. As for not being able to speak, he had never done too much of that anyway and it was only now that the ability was taken away that he felt the bitter loss of it. 

The emotions he felt at Jaskier’s question were riotous, but strange, as though viewed through an unfamiliar lens. He thought of what he liked about being a wolf and immediately he felt the soft give of earth beneath his paws, smelled the scent of prey in the air as the thrill of the chase flooded his veins, felt the rush of blood over his teeth when he protected Jaskier from monsters masquerading as men.

He barked once. Then paused, barked twice more.

“A complicated answer to a complicated question. I understand,” Jaskier said reasonably, his hand once more coming to rest on Geralt’s back, fingers deep in the thick fur. “I’m sure I can’t quite imagine what it’s like, having never gone through it myself, but I assume there are many perks to being such a magnificent creature, just as there are many drawbacks to losing your voice and hands and such. I imagine I myself would feel rather conflicted.”

Once again, Geralt found himself amazed by the man beside him. How did he understand exactly what Geralt was thinking, without him being able to say a single word? He brushed his side against Jaskier’s hip, hoping that he understood what Geralt couldn’t say.

In the end, they made it to Zamosc by late afternoon, just as the shops and market stalls were closing for the day. Jaskier warned him that it would be dangerous for them to just stroll into town, not that Geralt particularly needed the warning. He knew well enough the reception he received when he walked on two legs. As a giant wolf, there would be nothing stopping the townsfolk from chasing him off with torches and pitchforks.

Instead, he led the two of them around to enter well off the main road, just behind the stables of the town’s only inn. The smell of hay and horses was familiar and comforting and he breathed deeply, searching for Roach’s particular scent. To his immense relief, he found her in the farthest stall, unharmed as he had hoped.

Jaskier followed him surprisingly silently as he led the way into the stables. It occurred to him belatedly that leading Jaskier to his horse would undoubtedly give away his identity, but it was too late to back out now and his need to check on his horse was too strong.

“Roach!” Jaskier gasped as Geralt came to a halt in front of her stall. To his surprise, the mare didn’t startle at the sight of him, the way the other horses were snorting nervously and kicking, but reached her nose down to sniff at him and whicker a familiar greeting. He supposed he must smell the same, witcher or wolf.

“Oh, Roach,” Jaskier whispered. He stepped closer and held out his hand for her to sniff delicately before consenting to be touched. “How I’ve missed you. It’s good to see you again, girl.” He wrapped his arms loosely around her neck in a hug, which she tolerated with shockingly good grace, before stepping back and patting her nose.

“If you’re here then where’s -” Jaskier began, then stopped, looking down at Geralt. There was a long moment where he did nothing but stare blankly at the wolf before him, his face betraying no thought or emotion. Then he glanced back at Roach, then back at Geralt.

“Oh.” 

His voice was so small it made Geralt want to make himself smaller in front of it. He waited anxiously to see what Jaskier’s reaction would be, if he would turn and leave him there to try and lift the curse himself or else be left a wolf forever, if he would scream at him, if he would raise the alarm and call the town to attack him. Only the last shreds of his pride kept Geralt sitting with a straight back, head held high while he awaited condemnation.

Slowly, Jaskier’s hand began to move again down Roach’s neck, petting softly. “So,” he said, his voice sounding a little strangled, “Geralt. Long time no see.”

Geralt whined, wishing viciously that he could speak.

“Yeah, not exactly the circumstances I imagined either. Um, thanks, by the way, for saving me earlier.” He was avoiding looking in Geralt’s eyes. “I’m guessing your things are in the inn?”

Geralt barked once, softly. He didn’t know what to do. Jaskier had felt more comfortable with him as a wild wolf than as himself. He waited in the stables with Roach as he was bid while Jaskier went in search of his belongings. Of one thing he was certain: he had never felt more miserable in his life.


	5. The Moon that Breaks the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disillusionment is not for the faint of heart.

The innkeeper was strangely reluctant to part with Geralt’s things. He had kept them in a back room once it was clear that the witcher wasn’t coming back any time soon and refused to hand them over to Jaskier until he proved that he was a friend of Geralt’s and not a low-life thief who just wanted to sell the valuable swords and armor for gold.

A friend of Geralt’s. The title struck deep into his chest, burrowing into the still bleeding wound of that agonizing moment on the mountain when he realized what a  _ fool _ he’d been all these years. It certainly hadn’t been the first time Geralt had snapped at him in anger. He’d always behaved like a wounded animal when something bothered him, lashing out at anything close just to make himself feel safer. That time though, the snarl had bared more than his own wounds. It had ripped something in Jaskier’s heart, torn apart the tiny flame of hope that Geralt’s gruff exterior hid a secret affection for him as a travel companion and friend. Disillusionment is not for the faint of heart.

If he were to be completely, ruthlessly honest with himself, he would admit that a major reason for his continuous blindness in regards to everything Geralt was due to another, small flame that burned in his heart. One that burned more durably and more destructively than hope. How many poems and songs had he written about Geralt over the years? Countless, to be sure. Yet, the majority of them would never see the light of day, filled as they were of incriminating odes to Geralt’s moonbeam hair and sunlight eyes, to his strong, gentle hands, to his scars, to his...well, everything. Jaskier could have possibly survived his infatuation had Geralt only been an attractive monster-killing asshole. Instead, he had to be an attractive monster-killing asshole  _ with a heart _ . The bastard.

Which was why, even now, even with this bleeding, gaping wound in his chest, Jaskier is here, smiling charmingly at the innkeeper and swearing upon every god, goddess, and his mother’s grave that Geralt is his best friend in the world. Because he is, Melitele save him.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” the innkeeper, Raimund, finally interrupts him. “I’ll give it to you. Wait here.”

Jaskier drummed his fingers on the bartop and looked around while he waited. It was still a bit early for the normal crowd of patrons, but there were still several tables occupied and the low buzz of conversation filled the room. Jaskier felt hollowed out and set adrift, like a gourd set to float in the middle of a lake, empty and spinning beneath a wide open sky. He felt dizzy. His conscious brain still had yet to put words to the revelation he’d had only twenty minutes ago and he shied away from any attempts to do so now. Yet, at the same time, there were currents of confused emotion swirling beneath the surface, pulling stronger and stronger the longer he ignored them. 

His fingers beat a sharp staccato beat on the wood. Angry. Yes, he was angry at Geralt, livid even. He couldn’t believe how angry he was at that man for how he’d treated him, for throwing him away like he did, for now seeking his help after  _ everything _ . He was angry at himself too, for always letting Geralt treat him poorly, for foolishly loving someone who would not, could not, love him back. He was angry at himself for wanting nothing more than to help Geralt right now.

Yet, Geralt had saved him. Jaskier remembered the flood of relief through his limbs, making him feel limp and tears collect on his lashes. Watching Winter - Geralt - leap so powerfully to his defense had been an extraordinary feeling. Knowing now that it was the witcher who had snarled with such fierce protectiveness, whose mouth had dripped with the blood of men who had been moments away from hurting him, left him confused. 

The loud smack of leather and metal hitting wood in front of him snapped Jaskier out of his thoughts.

“Thank you so much, Raimund, you are a true blessing. I am sure Geralt would not mind my speaking on his behalf when I say that he is most grateful to you for safeguarding his belongings,” Jaskier beamed at him. He placed a few coins on the counter in thanks and bowed before leaving, awkward bundle in hand.

It wasn’t far from the tavern to the stables, but Jaskier walked slowly to give himself more time. The question of whether he would continue to help Geralt didn’t even seem worth asking; of course he would help him lift the curse. Instead, he replayed the past few days in his head, trying to remember everything he’d said to the wolf, thinking that he was speaking in total confidence to a wild animal. 

All too soon he arrived at the stable, now concerningly occupied by a few stablehands going about their evening duties of feeding and watering the horses and mucking out the stalls. Jaskier ducked around the side of the building seconds before one of them, a boy of only sixteen, judging by his gangling looks, came bursting out of the front doors pushing a wheelbarrow full of reeking manure. Jaskier wrinkled his nose a bit and continued around to the back, searching for any sign of Geralt. Surely he wouldn’t have stayed inside the stables while there were people about?

“Geralt?” he called softly, edging towards the woods. It was twilight now and the shadows were gathering swiftly, giving everything a strange, dimensionless quality. He nearly tripped several times over flat-looking roots and other times stepped too high over nothing at all. 

A flash of white in the trees caught his attention and he darted further into darkness, away from the glowing lanterns and fires of town. He called Geralt’s name again in a whisper-shout, but was answered instead by Roach’s whinnying greeting. The sound came from deeper in the trees, out of sight of any townspeople out walking the night. Jaskier only hesitated for a moment before continuing on.

He found Geralt sitting erect on a large, flat boulder, watching him approach. His yellow eyes caught the fading light of day and made them twin flames, burning suns to replace the one that sank below the horizon. Roach was a few feet away, munching merrily on some dandelions. She looked up when he came close, however, and trotted over to greet him, sticking her nose against his face.

“Hey, girl,” he laughed, glad for the distraction from Geralt’s intensity. “I’m very happy to see you too. And I’m sure you’re glad to be on the road again after being cooped up for so long, huh?” He stroked her velvety nose and smiled. “I don’t like staying in one place either.”

He would have liked to keep petting her for a while, if only to further postpone the confrontation with his (ex?) best friend-turned-wolf. As it was, the bundle under his arm was too heavy to continue holding indefinitely and Roach, once satisfied that Jaskier was not going to disappear again, wanted to return to her snack.

Jaskier sighed deeply and looked at the ground, not wanting to meet those burning golden eyes again. He shifted the bundle in his arms and walked over to Geralt’s boulder to put it down. He pulled out the swords first and lay them side by side, still in their sheaths with the leather harness belted through them. Next he untied the pieces of armor that had been held together with a length of hemp rope. He carefully checked that all the pieces were there before laying them aside next to the swords. Jaskier knew how Geralt liked to organize his pack and was surprised to find that everything seemed to be in its proper place. He pulled out bottles of potions, spare shirts and breeches, a whetstone, a couple pieces of flint, a large beeswax cloth full of dried meat, apples, and berries, and various other necessities that constituted everything the witcher owned in the world. Jaskier didn’t notice anything missing, but he had no idea how much money Geralt had had prior to this to judge if his coin purse was too light, nor could he tell if any potions were missing. 

“Well, it looks like everything is here, unless you had something I didn’t know about. If there’s any money or potions missing, I’m afraid I can’t tell and there’s nothing I can do about it in any case.” Geralt had been watching him throughout this process, taking inventory. Now he looked up at him and whined. Jaskier had quite gotten used to that sound from Winter, but now that he knew it was Geralt, it seemed an oddly vulnerable expression of emotion and need.

“What is it? Is something missing?” Jaskier’s eyes flicked back over the items arrayed on the boulder, organized neatly beneath the dim light of the moon. He squinted. What did Geralt notice was absent? There were his swords, his armor, his potions, his money, his clothes…

“Oh!” Jaskier exclaimed, suddenly understanding. “Is it your amulet? I’m sorry, it wasn’t there. I asked. Were you maybe wearing it when you were cursed?”

A short bark for yes. Did that mean he wasn’t upset about the amulet being missing? Geralt whined again and nudged Jaskier’s shoulder. He looked up at him, searching for a clue as to what Geralt was trying to say. His lupine eyes seemed to be searching his face in turn, seeking some answer to a question that couldn’t be voiced.

“Ah,” Jaskier said, looking away. He settled himself more comfortably upon the stone and began packing everything neatly away again. “You’re wondering why I’m helping you.” It should be strange, the fact that he understood Geralt’s wordless question, but Geralt had never been a man of many words and Jaskier considered himself at least semi-fluent in non-verbal Geralt communication. “Why I came back,” he continued, “even though you broke my heart months ago and I really shouldn’t feel obligated to do anything for you at all?”

The potion bottles felt terribly fragile in his shaking hands and he handled them carefully as to not break them. Geralt gave a soft woof in response.  _ Yes, I want to know _ .

“Firstly, I want to make it clear that I will always help you. You’re my friend, Geralt, even if I am not yours. I’ve told you this before.” Geralt made a small noise that sounded like protest but Jaskier held up his hand. “Secondly, I’m not sure how I feel about it, okay? Just because you’re my friend and I’ve agreed to help you doesn’t mean I’m not still hurting and confused. In some ways, it makes sense that it was you all along, because I couldn’t understand why I instantly trusted a giant wolf I met in the forest, but perhaps some small part of me recognized you, unconsciously. In others...I don’t know, Geralt. I don’t understand how you’ve been a better friend to me in the past few days as a wolf than in twenty years as a man. Perhaps it’s because you can’t speak,” he added with a wry grin.

Geralt looked away, as though ashamed. His entire body seemed to scream guilt and self recrimination and Jaskier’s eyes stung with tears. “Look, let’s just -” he had to stop and clear his throat of the lump that seemed to choke him, “let’s just find that cure, alright? Then we’ll have a conversation. Or you can go your own way and finally have your peace. Whichever. For now, I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

There seemed little point in starting a fire this late, despite the pre-winter chill, and Jaskier was too tired to do more than lay out his bedroll on a soft patch of moss that lay near the boulder and crawl beneath his blanket. He could feel rather than see Geralt still sitting stiffly above him, one ear swiveled to catch the myriad of sounds of the night. He resolutely closed his eyes against the image in his head of the huge wolf standing guard over him as he slept and let his exhaustion carry him away into oblivion.

He awoke with the dawn, surprisingly, the bright, clear light of autumn setting the trees on fire with red and gold and seeping into his dark dreams. He blinked awake, disoriented, and looked around. Geralt was still there, where he had presumably kept vigil the entire night. His gold eyes swept down to glance at him when he stirred before looking away quickly. It seemed that Jaskier was not the only one feeling discomfited by the situation, then.

Jaskier stood and stretched, groaning as various joints loosened and popped with the motion. “Good morning,” he greeted, false cheer making his voice a tad louder than the moment called for. “I don’t suppose we have any breakfast do we? That’s alright, we should probably get going as soon as possible, anyway. Don’t want you stuck like that, do we?” He laughed lightly, but he saw Geralt tense.

“I was only teasing. Is that possible? Could you be stuck like this? That seems...awfully unfair.” The thought made his mouth turn down in an unconscious frown as he considered the possibility of it. No doubt there were worse things than to be turned into a wolf, but it was hardly what one would call a desirable outcome. 

He sighed, feeling as drained as though he had not slept a moment rather than the several solid hours he’d managed the night before. He walked over to Geralt and crouched down to look him in the eye, wanting to be sure his promise would be understood.

“We will find someone to break this curse, my friend. No matter what it takes. Even if we have to find that bloody, purple-eyed witch to do it, we will restore you to your usual, brooding self. I promise.”

Geralt met his gaze evenly, then slowly closed his eyes and tipped his head forward to rest his forehead against Jaskier’s. Automatically, Jaskier brought up a hand to sink to the fur at his neck and hold on.

With a sigh, he stood and packed up their meager camp. He automatically grabbed Roach’s reins and started walking back toward the road, skirting around the town they had just left. 

“Lead the way, Geralt. That is, if you have any idea of where to begin. Otherwise we can just start going town by town asking for mages...but that might take a while.”

Geralt glanced at him before seeming to think for a moment. Then he started walking east, his steps sure on the soft forest floor. Jaskier followed him silently, his heart heavy in his chest. He had no idea what to expect when they finally lifted Geralt’s curse, but Jaskier was a man of his word and he fully intended to keep his promise, no matter the consequences to his own fragile heart. He would survive, he knew. He always did.


End file.
